You’re listening to Neural Noir.

I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

Some roads aren’t just asphalt and gravel. They’re memory lanes for things that never quite leave. They hold onto the lost, the unfinished, the echoes of people who never made it home. Ask anyone who’s lived in a small town long enough and they’ll tell you about a road they don’t take after dark. Not because of traffic, or crime, but because something waits there.

In one town west of the Mississippi, that road is Fairview.

It looks ordinary. Half a mile of cracked asphalt. A narrow stretch connecting a state route to a subdivision built in the 1960s. But if you ask locals, they’ll lower their voice, as if the road could overhear. They’ll tell you the same warning, in the same words, passed down for decades:

Don’t stop on Fairview after dark.

Not because of cops. Not because of gangs. Because of the boy.

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